The Turtledoves in the Backyard

It was one of those warm and sunny afternoons. Thinking that Bass and Stogdill’s Handbook of Leadership would be less painful if accompanied by a cigarette, I picked up a lawn chair and stepped out to the backyard. It was working beautifully. The nicotine and warm sun did the inconceivable. The gobbledygook that was management began to reveal itself. I finally managed to get a glimpse of what the two academicians were desperately trying to say. Sadly, it was not for long.

The sound was familiar. Definitely out of place, but very familiar. It echoed in the long hollow lane of my memory. Soothing and calm, it was the prominent sound of humid dry season afternoons in the jati hills of Gunung Kidul where I spent two months of rural internship programs. And inevitably, my mind drifted slowly there, amidst the rustling of dead leaves and the smell of alang-alang.

With a long drag, the flashes of memory streamed in. The hustle and bustle Munggi market on market day. The long, arduous ride to Baron beach. The earth-floored house I stayed in. And the fact that the bed was so small that we slept in turns. The bruised hands from skinning endless streams of cassava during gaplek season. The smell of roasted grasshopper. Sitting on a pandan mat while watching jathilan rehearsals under petromaks light. The red rice warung near Semanu bridge—fabulous food, tear-jerking price. The festivity of harvest celebration. The various committee meeting with endless home-ground coffee, steamed cassava, and sand-roasted peanuts. Oh my, was it only eight years ago?

In any case, so long, Professor Bass! Goodbye, Dr. Stogdill!

Much Ado About Smoking

They installed a smoke detector in my room. It means I can no longer consume nicotine in the privacy and comfort of my own room. To tell you the truth, I’m not supposed to do that in the first place. Oh well, the back yard it is from now on.

Actually, I’m not new to outdoor smoking. When I still lived in the Bekasi house under the regime of Lady Widyasmoro, indoor smoking was abhorred. The perpetrator of such degenerate conduct would be treated with cold shoulder and deprived of carnal joy for a certain period of time. None the less, I used to tiptoe out of the bedroom when the lady was fast asleep, opened the front door to allow air circulation, and lit a cigarette. In most cases I managed to puff myself halfway down the cigarette stick before I heard the familiar are-you-smoking-in-the-living-room-Dear?. And out I went.

In retrospect, smoking outside one’s house in Bekasi is not that bad. It was mostly warm and humid. I could go out in my undershirt and sarong. Any evening breeze would be most welcome. Yes, there were the mosquitoes, but a decent insect repellent should do the trick. I even went as far as smoking while swinging my racket-like electric mosquito trap. The crackling sound of electrocuted mosquitoes was music to my ears.

Now, in this part of the world they call Newcastle, things are different. Going out to smoke in undershirt and sarong, especially after midnight, is considered as an act of lunacy. Not only on account of the fact that the temperature during the winter is hovering around zero, but also of the unforgiving breeze that will penetrate your sarong and threaten to freeze your most valuable asset. So, in addition to the outfit in question, I have to put on thermal undergarment, track pants, socks, gloves, hooded fleece jerseys, and balaclava. All in the name of nicotine addiction.

You

You. You effortlessly rattled my belief. Purged my sins. Deprived me of joy. Kept me off cold. Incinerate me. Ward off my nightmares. Called out my name. Fixed me breakfast. Read me stories. Smothered me. Ripped my heart out. Toyed with my curiosity. Writhed under me. Whispered in my ears. Threw me off balance. Challenged my sanity. Bit me. Caught me off guard. Redefined my happiness. Sever my vein. Kept me waiting. Exceeded my expectation. Teased me. Squeezed me. Hung me dry. Savoured me compeletely. Slept in my lap. Daydreamed with me. Kept me balanced. Render me senseless. Kept me yearning. Always longing.

How do you take your coffee, my sweet?

Stepping Into The Void

It’s like for one moment you have this ground underneath your feet and the next moment it’s just not there. Wave after wave of unidentified feelings overwhelm and sweep you by, sending you rolling down the emotional turbulence.

It’s like when you miscalculate your jump to a swimming pool. The chattering noise of the rest of the world is suddenly replaced by the gurgling of breaking water. Amidst the swirling bubbles you can see the blue tiles of the bottom. For a moment there you are lost. You don’t know whether you should stay submerged and gulp water or break to the surface and inhale air.

This perplexity is an uncharted territory to you. And you start having doubt of what happened. What were cherished moments become hazy blurs of speeding cars in the freeway. You question what was said, what you heard, what you felt, what you remembered, what sent you to cloud nine, and what brought you crashing down.

You can’t put a finger to what it was. What made you stay wide awake long after farewells had been exchanged. What got you up early in the mornings after. What made you smile all the way to the office—and, in most cases, throughout the day. What made you jump at the sound of alert tone. Somehow they are all receding into the background.

Then you look at the bruises and cuts. Whatever it was, it had happened. It had happened to you.

The Picture and the Nail*

It's not easy. It's never easy. Taking the picture off your wall. The picture you are used to. The first thing you see when you walk in. The last thing you see when you close the door.

And you will remember how confused you were the first time you had it in your hands. Where should you put it? Above the fireplace, so that even when the fire was out you could still seek warmth by looking at it? Or by the window? Or in the hallway? And then naturally you just took a hammer and a nail. And a few cheerful poundings later later it's there. For you to see, look, gaze, admire, adore, and take comfort in.

Little did you realize that when the time comes to take it off the wall, you will also have to pull the nail out. You just can't use it to hang another picture. And the nail would leave a bigger hole. And your wall will never be the same again.

It's not easy. It's never easy. But it's not impossible.



* a credit to marianne for the inspiration

The Text

delete message: yes/no
a moment of hesitation.
if I press yes, will it be gone for ever?
what a foolish thought
the one word she sent to my mobile phone,
it travelled much farther than that
to stay

Pasar Saliwangi

Park your bike just outside the market. You will meet a man who single-handedly runs the small parking lot with high efficiency. Later when you want to leave, just give him your keys. He will ask you which direction you want to go to and proceed to get your bike out and arrange it accordingly.

Next to the parking lot is the banana place. All kinds of bananas, you name it. They sell it by the stem. Last time I went there, I bought a stem of arm-long, unripened byar banana for Rp. 7000,-. They make excellent banana chips.

Across from the banana place is where the retailers of Tasikmalayan garment industry operate. They loudly remind your of your love for your loved ones and insist that to prove your love, you must buy bras, child clothing, jeans, blouses, overalls, shorts, see-through lingerie, or whatever it is they are selling.

Grocery shops with sachets of household products dangling like colorful curtains dominate the northern side of the market while greengrocers colonize the street in front of them. On the pavement, the greengrocers spread out specimens of local vegetables, most of which are nonentities in English vocabulary. Everything from kangkung to ganyong. From godhong so to gadung. They sometimes even have pondoh, the softer part of coconut stalk. Freshly uprooted ground peanuts, cassavas, and sweet potatoes are among the regulars.

Locate the northern entrance. It should be easy as it lies next to the only VCD vendor in the market. That’s where the loud langgam Banyumasan comes from. Right on the entrance you will find a woman selling pelas yuyu; finely ground freshwater crab mixed with lightly spiced grated coconut and steamed in small banana leaves wrappings. A heavenly delicacy that can be brought down to earth in exchange for Rp. 1,000,++ a dozen. Yes, a dozen.

Next to her is the buntil seller. Another traditional masterpiece consisting of a mixture of spiced grated coconut and dried teri, wrapped in boiled cassava, papaya, or talas leaves. Talas leaf-buntil is getting rare this days. The soft texture of talas leaf beats cassava and the slightly bitter papaya leaf by a mile.These ball-like delicacies are then served with spicy coconut milk sauce that is eye-catchingly yellow-reddish in color. Rp. 500,++ each. Rp. 1,000,++ for three pieces. Tax free.

Walk further and you will enter the realm of traditional cakes and sweets sold in tampahs, flat circular tray made from plaited bamboo. Most are cassava based and then topped by white, freshly shred coconuts; cethil, cenil, inthil, growol, and gathot. Cethil is colorful and chewy bite-sized sweet made from tapioca flour, I think. Cenil is made from the same base and share the same chracteristic but the color is almost always black. The coloring comes from the ash of paddy stalk. Don’t frown, it’s good. Inthil is brownish and grainy. Growol and gathot have become a rarity. Both are made from roughly chopped gaplek, that is sun-dried cassava for those of you who are not familiar, and have distinctive sweetish taste. Sometimes you can find oyek here. I don’t know what it is made from, but elder citizens remember it lovingly as substitute of rice in times of famine. Other sweets and cakes with national reputation like cucur, apem, lopis, klepon, and gandos are also available. For Rp. 500,++ they will quickly fix you any of those sweets. Wrapped in banana leaves, as always.

As for you pecel-lovers, you’ve just died and gone to pecel heaven. Banyumasan pecel, especially the one sold in Stasiun Kroya or in small market places such as this, prides itself for having the most variety of vegetables in Javanese culinary landscape. Forget those pathetic Jogjanese pecels, including SGPC Bu Wiryo, that only use spinach, carrot stick, cabbage, and bean sprout. A full-fledged Banyumasan pecel usually consits of kangkung, spinach, cassava leaf, godhong so, longbean, half-ripe papaya sticks, papaya leaf (optional), curing, klandingan seed, kecipir, kembang turi, melinjo stem, bean sprout, and the signature item, kecombrang. Aside from providing color in a mainly green setting, the red petals of kecombrang brings about a distinctive tangy aroma that differentiate this pecel from those of other regions. The concoction is then liberally topped by hot-sweet, but mainly hot, peanut dressing. I’m suffering from hunger pangs just writing this.

Still in the same aisle, you can find tempe (fermented soybean cake) and its variants; mendoan, ranjem, and dages. Unlike their Jakartan brethren, the local tempe is not sold in slabs. It is wrapped individually in banana leaves in triangle or rectangular shape. In some areas like Gandrungmangu or Kawunganten, you can even find tempe wrapped in jati leaf. This, I suspect, not only adds a natural edge to it, but also greatly enhances the taste, as opposed to plastic wrapping.

Mendoan is a larger but much thinner kind of tempe. It’s about the size of a notebook. Due to its ubiquitous nature, mendoan has retained iconic status in Banyumasan cuisine, which is rather strange because in contrast to tempe, mendoan is not versatile. The only way I know of preparing mendoan is by dipping it in batter and then frying it half done. Avid practitioners of mendoan-eating insist that instead of being crispy, a proper fried mendoan should be flexible enough to be rolled like newspaper before being consumed.

While tempe and mendoan are made from peeled soybean, ranjem and dages are made from leftover of food processing industy. Ranjem, known as gembus in many other areas, is made from ampas tahu, leftover from tofu-making. The pressed-liquidless soybean is fermented with god-knows-what fungus into light greyish cakes. Dages, on the other hand, is made from different leftover.

Despite the fact that I’m a big dages fan since childhood, I haven’t been able to shed light into dages-making until recently. An aged dages-seller near my place confided that dages is in fact made from bungkil kelapa. When they made coconut oil in the old days, the grated coconut is fermented and then pressed to produce the base oil. The leftover of the pressing process is what we called bungkil. That explains the grittiness and coarse texture when you sink your teeth into a slab of dages. So, dages is the close cousin of the forbidden tempe bongkrek, another variant of tempe made from the same material but different fermenting agent. Both dages and ranjem, especially dages, are considered unfit for serving houseguests due to their cheapness. A slab of ranjem, roughly the size of four packs of cigarettes goes for Rp. 300,++, while dages goes for even less. Their severe lack of nutrition also earns them the status of ‘food that makes you stupid’. Mothers used to say to their children: Don’t eat too much dages, you will be stupid. As for me, it’s stupid if you don’t eat enough of dages. Stir-fried dages with cheyenne chili-pepper, peeled pete, and shrimp is simply to die for. Not to mention the thinly-sliced, batter-coated dages deep-fried in low fire. It’s like nothing you ever tasted before. Better than the much more pricey keripik paru. The texture, the taste. Oh, my.

Turn left at the end of the aisle and brace your self for the best aquatic lives Cilacapian waters has to offer.There is a boat landing nearby so most of the marine lives presented are still fresh. Live, prancing shrimps. Saltwater crabs with their claws secured by bamboo-peel. The entire parade of oysters and other mollusks. Squids of various sizes. Oddly enough the largest of squids, the sotong, is priced at only Rp. 6,000,++ a kilo, while the smaller egg-squid can reach up to Rp.12,000,++. The predominant fish being sold is blanak, layur, tengiri, tongkol, dawah, and kerapu depending on the season, all ranging from Rp. 9,000,++ to Rp. 15,000,++ a kilo, also depending on the season. There are also the yellow fin and other shallow water fish of which I know nothing about. You can get lembutan at Rp. 5,000,++ a kilo. Lembutan is an assortment of small fish not larger than your index finger. The best way to serve this particular fish is to have it deep fried in low fire to perfect crispiness. Lunjar is only available during rainy season. It’s of similar size with lembutan but live in rivers and ricefields.

Next to row you will find the processed fish section. Diverse range of salted fish. From the tiny teri, to large whole jambal. My favorite in this section is the gapitan. Basically gapitan is fish, any fish, clamped by a bamboo stick and then briefly grilled in charcoal fire. The grilling is so brief that although the exterior is dry, gapitan meat is still juicy inside. The charcoal also adds the smoky scent the gapitan is known for. The most commonly found gapitan is made of cuts from larges fish like cucut or stingray that would be unappealing should they be sold whole. Sometimes there also gapitan made from medium sized whole fish, usually tongkol. The sight of neatly stacked gapitan always pleases the eye. And the taste pampers the soul.

My god, I’m hungry.

Ariane Hanifa Widyasmoro

Saya tidak bisa lagi berkata-kata. Memandangi si kecil yang terbaring di boks-nya dalam balutan bedhong melenyapkan seluruh kemampuan saya untuk berartikulasi. Dalam diam saya menikmati kecamuk nuansa yang hanya datang sekali.

Selamat datang di dunia, nak. Dunia yang penuh warna indah dan gelak tawa. Dunia yang kelam dan sakit. Kelak kau akan menjelajah kedua sisinya. Aku dan ibumu akan mengajarkan apa yang kami tahu. Tapi keputusan tetap ada di tanganmu. Dan jika kelak kita saling menyakiti, ingatkan kami akan saat ini.

Tong Setan

Ada pasar malam di lapangan dekat rumah sakit tempat istri saya biasa memeriksakan kandungan. Jadi semalam setelah diceramahi panjang lebar, tinggi dan dalam, tentang pentingnya minum susu bagi ibu hamil, kami iseng-iseng mampir.

Baru beberapa menit, istri saya sudah menyeret saya ke arah penjual arum manis, itu lho, yang bahasa Inggrisnya 'cotton candy'. Terus terang, saya tidak terlalu suka makanan yang mayoritas berwarna pink itu karena diantara semua makanan yang pernah diciptakan manusia, penampilan arum manis adalah yang paling menipu. Lha bagaimana tidak, wujudnya yang sebesar bantal itu akan kempes tak lama setelah plastiknya dibuka dan berubah menjadi sesuatu yang manis, lengket, dan sama sekali tidak mengenyangkan. Belum lagi higinitas dan legalitas zat pewarna yang dipakai. Tapi hal-hal tersebut tampaknya bukan menjadi halangan bagi istri saya, dan sebelum saya memahami sepenuhnya apa yang terjadi, ia sudah memegang sebuah arum manis ukuran besar sambil memandang saya dengan senyum penuh kemenangan.

Pasar malam itu sendiri tidak terlalu besar. Di dekat jalan masuk banyak permainan yang aneh-aneh. Satu stand menawarkan sirup, rokok, dan sabun mandi bagi siapapun yang berhasil membuat botol teh botol berdiri dengan bantuan gelang plastik yang diikatkan ke sejenis joran pancing. Stand yang lain menawarkan alat-alat rumahtangga bagi yang berhasil memasukkan bola pingpong ke deretan gelas. Belum lagi catur tiga langkah yang pasti akan membuat Gary Kasparov geleng-geleng kepala karena dalam satu papan bisa terdapat lima menteri, enam bidak, dan empat benteng. Bayar seribu jalan tiga langkah. Hitam mati, bawa pulang dua bungkus rokok. Remis menang bandar. Buka kunci duapuluhlima ribu rupiah.

Di ujung lapangan ada stand rumah hantu dari tripleks bergambarkan berjenis-jenis hantu yang beberapa diantaranya pernah menjadi atraksi utama di mimpi buruk saya semasa kecil. Sampai kapanpun saya tidak akan masuk ke tempat terkutuk itu. Aneh juga kalo dipikir bahwa orang bersedia membayar untuk ditakut-takuti oleh hantu yang bahkan bukan hantu betulan. Lebih baik nongkrong di kuburan, gratis.

Di samping rumah hantu ada stand komidi putar yang dipenuhi oleh anak-anak yang merengek-rengek pada orang tuanya minta dibelikan tiket masuk. Di sebelahnya ada stand kincir air yang memutar lagu dangdut kencang-kencang, bersaing dengan stand-stand lain. Terakhir kali saya naik kincir air adalah waktu kuliah dulu di Sekaten, alun-alun utara Jogja. Istri saya, waktu itu masih pacar, ketakutan setengah mati karena merasa stand itu bisa roboh sewaktu-waktu dan alih-alih bersimpati, saya tidak bisa menahan tawa. Dan selama dua hari setelahnya ia tak mau menanggapi bujukan saya.

Bau rumput lapangan bercampur dengan wangi berondong jagung dan asap generator. Tukang mainan parasut melemparkan dagangannya ke udara. Dengan payung terkembang, tentara kayu mendarat perlahan di antara gelembung-gelembung sabun yang ditiup penjualnya. Nah, di antara semua itu, hal yang paling menarik perhatian saya adalah stand yang ada di paling ujung.

Bayangkan sebuah ember kayu yang tingginya sekitar enam meter. Nah, stand yang saya maksud kira-kira bentuknya seperti itu. Dari dalam terdengar bunyi raungan motor yang jauh dari merdu. Si announcer mengiklankan stand itu sebagai 'Tong Setan', walaupun saya tidak yakin letak setannya ada di sebelah mana, dan mengatakan sesuatu tentang 'menentang maut'. Entah mengapa saya jadi tertarik, dan dengan diiring pandangan protes dari istri saya, saya bejalan ke arah loket.

Begitulah, setelah membeli tiket, kami naik ke panggung melingkar di bibir ember raksasa itu. Untuk sampai ke atas kami harus naik tangga spiral yang terus terang kondisinya agak memprihatinkan. Namun untunglah tangga besi itu masih sanggup menahan berat badan saya yang naik 15 kilo sejak saya pindah ke Jakarta.

Di atas sudah menunggu beberapa orang. Karena semua melongok ke dasar tong, saya juga tertarik untuk melakukan hal yang sama. Nun di bawah sana ada sebuah motor butut yang sedang di tune-in oleh seorang pemuda yang saya asumsikan sebagai penunggangnya, penghibur kami malam itu. Motornya benar-benar butut dan pretelan, tinggal mesin, kerangka dan roda. Pokoknya kalau di jalan raya pasti sudah menjadi makanan empuk polantas.

Kayu-kayu yang membentuk tong raksasa itu terlihat sudah lapuk dan berhiaskan noda oli di sana-sini. Tidak ada alat pengaman sama sekali, bahkan sekedar helm pelindung kepala. Namun semua itu tampaknya tidak mengganggu si pengendara. Ia berputar-putar di dasar tong melakukan pemanasan. Dan pertunjukan pun dimulai. Sang pengendara motor yang gagah berani itu berputar-putar di dinding tong menentang gravitasi bumi. Memanfaatkan gaya sentrifugal, atau sentripetal, saya lupa yang mana. Setelah beberapa saat dia memandang kami sambil bersedekap. Anehnya gasnya tidak mengendur. Sesekali ia naik sampai ke bibir tong dan dengan kemahiran yang luar biasa kembali menukik ke dasar tong. Sedikit salah perhitungan pasti ia sudah terbang ke luar tong dan menciptakan pertunjukan yang selama ini hanya saya tonton dari Word's Amazing Video. Istri saya hanya melongok sedikit ke dalam tong, dan dengan bijak segera menjauh. Ia lebih tertarik untuk tenggelam ke dunia arum manisnya.

Salah seorang dari penonton, mungkin teman si pengendara, melambaikan selembar uang ribuan, memancing kami untuk melakukan hal yang sama. Uang itu segera disambar dengan kecekatan yang luarbiasa. Tak cukup dengan tangan, si teman kemudian menggigit lembaran uang itu dan menyodorkan wajahnya ke bibir tong. Dengan teknik yang sempurna uang itu berpindah ke tangan. Beberapa orang penonton melakukan hal yang sama. Tak ingin ketinggalan, dengan jantung berdegup, saya merogoh kantong dan melambaikan selembar ribuan.

Detak jantung saya tambah kencang ketika si pengendara melihat uang yang saya lambaikan dan mulai mengincar dari dasar tong. Semuanya terjadi begitu cepat. Dalam sekejap uang itu hilang dari tangan saya seiring dengan raungan motor dan bau asap knalpot. Motor butut tanpa spion dan lampu apapun itu berkelebat hanya beberapa senti dari wajah saya. Seandainya si pengendara hilang konsentrasi, saya pasti akan membutuhkan beberapa jahitan, atau mungkin gips penyangga leher. Benar-benar bentuk hiburan yang aneh. Sama seperti orang-orang konyol di Spanyol yang dengan sukarela menyediakan diri untuk dikejar banteng. Di dalam hati saya menyimpulkan bahwa jika suatu saat memang harus nyawer, saya lebih suka melakukannya kepada penyanyi organ tunggal atau penari tayub.

Setelah hampir seperempat jam, si pengendara melambaikan tangan menandakan bahwa pertunjukan telah usai. Dengan lembaran-lembaran uang seribuan yang bertebaran di dasar tong, tampaknya ia cukup senang. Dan saya pun lega karena semua orang selamat dari cedera. Saya menengok ke belakang dan mendapati istri saya sedang tersenyum. "Puas?", tanyanya singkat. Saya tidak tahu harus menjawab apa.

The Finer Things in Life

As I have long suspected, beauty is not only dependent on the eye of the beholder, but also on whether it is readily available. Take the people who live in Pangandaran or Pelabuhan Ratu, for example. You don't see them sitting all day admiring the beach. It's just everyday stuff for them.

By following the same logical reasoning, I found out that I can understand celebrity divorces better. Beauty, although it certainly helps, is not everything.

That is also why despite the fact that my wife is not a glamorous supermodel, or pornstar for that matter, there are times--such as when it's raining outside and she holds her cup of hot tea with both hands, sipping her tea while looking at me--when I can't help but tell my self, goddamn! she is beautiful.

The Kick In The Head

The other night she was lying on her bed when I nudged closer and pressed my ear to her bulging tummy. Sure enough I felt a murmur of faint heartbeat beating along with hers. And then I felt a thud. Right there. Right where I placed my ear. Did you feel it? she asked.

I did. It made my heart expanded twice the original size. I was happy. I was insanely happy. Like going to a funfair for the first time. Like being given a prize worth the entire span of your life.

And there were also excitement and fear. I was flooded with those two, but couldn't tell which was dominant. Excited for having the chance to step into a realm unbeknownst to my self. Fear, when I realized all this is actually for real. It IS happening.

I've watched her tummy grows bigger. I've made the trip with her to the gynecologist every four weeks. I've made sure she takes her vitamins and drinks her milk. I've printed almost every article about pregnancy that I can find over the net and bring them home for her. But never for once did I stop to realize how real this whole affair is. Nor have I fully digested the fact that in a matter of months something big will happen. Something that will definitely change the course of our lives.

Maybe I'm too used to taking life for granted. Letting things get past me without bothering to appreciate their true value. But that kick delivered by my unborn kid reminded me that some things do deserve a more serious consideration. See you outside, kiddo!


ps. holiday, you and your questions!! thanks

Maju Kena Mundur Kena

I bought and watched Dono, Kasino and Indro's Maju Kena Mundur Kena the other day. I don't know what came over me, I have only my impulsive nature to blame. That and my excessive sentimentality. You see, this movie, which was made sometime in mid 80s, is one of the early movies my parents took me out to see. Yeah, what were they thinking?

Anyway, Maju Kena Mundur Kena offers you exactly what you expect from Warkop DKI movies; a monumental amount of slapstick jokes and legs-and-boobs aplenty. In the first 5 minutes alone, the trio, collectively or individually, manages to bump their heads into various hard objects around 15 times, miraculously without being hospitalized for concussion.

There are also the obligatory allusions to sex and everything that goes with it. Eva Arnaz shows off her curves at every possible occasion. But by god, she has every right to do so. She was drop-dead gorgeous. It's as if she were a beacon radiating signal that persuades all men to abandon all reasons and devote their entire life gawking at her. I simply drooled at the sight of her in a slightly too revealing nightie. The missus gave me a sound smack at the head to bring me back to earth. Eva prances her way through the movie in skimpy pants and tight blouses. And I'm not complaining.

As is the case of their other movies, there is no plot to speak of. Dono, Kasino, and Indro work in the same garage and live in the same boarding house, along with Lidya Kandouw. Enter Eva Arnaz. And that's just about it. The movie is merely a collection of short sketches that almost stand individually.

None the less, these guys were good at it. I cringed at every slip or collision, yet I also found myself smiling. Years of working together had made these guys experts in creating slapstick situation. What I laughed at is not the bumps, but the sheer improbability of it happening in real life. Although their later works are crap, their earlier were nothing less than classics. I especially like the one where they worked in a hotel and the one where they built a soft-drink vending robot (the funniest of them all).

All in all, it was a decent form of entertainment, especially when you manage to switch off your brain as you push 'Play'. Smoking pot while watching is highly recommended. I'd rather watch this than Indonesian sinetrons any day.

Reminiscing Saur Sepuh

How many of your remember Saur Sepuh? Yep. It was a phenomenal radio series in mid 80s I think. In Cilacap the show was aired at 2.30 pm daily and it would took a team of horses to drag me away from the radio.

Basically the story revolved around the adventures of Brama Kumbara, a king who was powerful and wise, a rare combination these days, from a small but respected kingdom of Madangkara. The king had this inclination to journey across his kingdom disguised as commoners, sometimes for months, which was rather strange, now that I think about it, bearing in mind that he had a kingdom to run.

Anyway, he was also a kick-ass warrior with great fighting skill and vast array of magical powers. His most notable power, if I remember correctly, was Ajian Serat Jiwa Tingkat 10, literally meaning the 10th level of Fiber of the Soul strike. The strike, if applied correctly, would reduce anyone foolish enough to be his enemy into a pile of ashes. Pretty handy if you run a crematorium business, eh? His other magical power was Bayu Bajra by which he could summon hurricanes to wreak havoc at the vicinity of his choice. Other skills included the standard requirements of the era’s warriors; fast running, long distance strike, and weight reduction to a point where you could stand on the smallest branch of any tree or effortlessly or leap a few stories high.

While Brama liked to fight bare-handed, his kid-sister Mantili preferred to do her ‘hostile negotiation’ by swords. In the old days she was known as Pedang Setan, the Ghoul Sword, because her sword, when unsheathed, would emit rolling fog of hellishly foul smelling substance. Apparently this was what distracted her enemies. While the poor slobs were busy covering their noses, Mantili conveniently slashed their necks. One time she was challenged by another swordmaster named Pedang Perak, the Silver Sword. The duel took several episodes to finish with Mantili coming on top and claimed ownership of the deceased’s sword. Apparently the silver sword reflected all sorts of light which in turn blinded the wielder’s foes. So from then on, enemy of the good not only had to contend with foul smell but also blinding lights.

Mantili, despite being a protagonist, was described as short-fused and quick to unseath both swords. Especially when she encountered Lasmini, the Swordmistress of Mount Lawu. I can’t quite recall what Lasmini’s special ability is, martially speaking, but she was extremely beautiful and she knew how to use her beauty to get what she wanted. So I guess it is safe to say that her most dangerous weapon was her sexuality, the deadliest weapon in every female’s arsenal. The voluptuous swordmistress either slept with her enemies or enchanted them with her beauty before hacking their heads off. Much to Mantili’s irritation, Lasmini had a major crush on Brama ever since our hero saved her from a pack of sex-crazed bad guys.

I don’t remember much about the antagonists because there were so many of them but there was this guy who mastered Ajian Serat Jiwa before Brama did and beat the shit out of the Madangkara king. Brama would have been dead had it not for the intervention of a giant eagle, much like Gwaihir in Lord of the Rings trilogy, who carried his dying body away. Miraculously, the king survived and years later, after mastering Ajian Serat Jiwa, got himself a rematch and exacted his revenge.

Anyway, for 30 minutes Sunday to Saturday,as was the case of millions devoted to this series, I was invited to roam in this land of fantasy. Although I could only heard the shouts and screams, I could vividly pictured how the mighty warriors taunted each other and slug it out. How the trees were uprooted and men scattered in the howling hurricane when Brama unleashed Bayu Bajra. The clanging of metals would indicate swordfight and my mind instantly drew a picture of Mantili leaping in swirling fog and silvery lights. How sparks flew from the clashing sword.

Man, they don’t make this kind of thing anymore.

The Road Not Taken

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like should I choose to remain a bachelor. Unburdened by marital responsibilities, I would certainly be able to devote my life in pursuit of mundane pleasures, which to my unimaginative and shallow mind would definitely include long hours of PC or console gaming, movie watching, and getting peacefully drunk.

It’s rather disheartening to find out that my interests in life are limited to the meaningless and egocentrical activities I have mentioned above. I have always imagined that a normal human being should always want to help others and better himself in one way or another in the process. You know, like taking master degree, joining a yoga class, volunteering for humanitarian missions, teaching homeless kids, feeding birds, or extracting wisdom from religious teachings. That the sole purpose of life to seek the meaning of life itself. It’s either getting the answer or going insane trying. Well, apparently not MY life.

My immediate attempt at salvation would be dipping really deep into my saving and getting my self a state-of-the-art gamer PC and PS2 console, a respectable 5.1 subwoofer system, and a small fridge.

I would go to Glodok every Friday afternoon to buy enough pirated DVDs to last for the weekend and sporadic occasions on weekdays. In between movies, I could always play Winning Eleven at the console or Diablo, Pharaoh, and Championship Manager at the PC. Or when I get tired of them all, I would simply get my self intoxicated and listen to the likes of Sting or U2. “And you give yourself away…and you give yourself away…I can't live, with or without you.”

I would live for the day. I would have no care for tomorrow. I would enjoy the moment.

Although my social life would be restricted to the people I meet at the office, all in all I think I would have a full life. Female companionship could be virtually obtained over the internet, courtesy of Yahoo Messenger and Friendster. And should ‘that’ need arise, I could always frequent those shady establishments at Mangga Besar my friends always rave about. However, due to the fact that it would cause a considerable dent to my meager budget, the visit should be restricted to once a month.

Actually here is where my seemingly perfect plan shows its major flaw. Despite all the above, I knew that my life would be deprived of human closeness. Devoid of unartificial warm feeling of mutual relationship. I would be alien to shared laughter and genuine intimacy. I know this because I’ve been there. I’ve been in Saturday mornings when I looked disdainfully at my stack of DVDs I purchased the previous day and wished I had bought a train ticket to Semarang instead. I remember calling my then fiancee and for 10 minutes I basked in the glimmer of past memories and future meetings. Yes, it’s rather sickeningly melancholic, but it’s true.

That is why I took the road I have travelled by. And I’m telling this without a sigh.


Note: I suppose you know that a certain Mr. Frost once wrote a wonderful poem whose title is featured in this post. You do? Good.

The Twin Red Line

A long, long time ago, a cybermate (yes, that’s you, Holiday), wrote something about the stages you have got to go through before you can actually love a living, breathing human being of the opposite sex.

She wrote that first you have to start with inanimate things, like a stone for example. The underlying reason being no matter how badly you screw up, you can’t hurt a stone. You may lose it or break it, but you just can’t hurt it. Easy.

Upon being able of loving lifeless object, you should move on to living but not moving objects, like trees. I’ve cultivated a patch of cassavas, back when I was still in Jogja. Not easy. I learnt that my affection for the cassava patch were short-lived as soon as I realized that I had to constantly weed them and water them, and gave them that evil-smelling goat waste.

The next stage concerns with loving a living, moving but unthinking object. Pets, for example. Now, here is where the real problem begins. My efforts to have a pet always ended up in the horrible demise of the poor animal. My cat banged his head to the tire of a moving car. My bird became a stray cat’s lunch. And my fish always went belly-up in the aquarium. Don’t know why.

What worries me is that my cybermate made it very clear that unless you succeed in loving and caring for the objects mentioned above, you are simply not ready for loving a living human being. Now it seems that in just a matter of months, I have made a giant leap from loving stones straight to loving a member of human race. First, I pledged loyalty and life-long dedication to a woman that have been the object of my affection for as long as I can remember. And then, one morning this woman emerged from the bathroom showing me a small stick. There were two red lines on it, instead of one.

Dear God, or whatever divine being reigning up there, I hope you know what you’re doing…

Perhaps Some Other Aeons

Right. It is the title of a song performed by the Cocteau Twins, which at first I mistook for that old French diver only to realize that his name was Costeau. And that he was dead, too. The reason why I’m writing this somewhat amateurish review is that a fellow blogger, whose blog I read religiously 5 days a week, made references to it several times in her posts, so I decided to see what the fuss is all about. Now I’m obliged to remind you that I have neither musical background nor adequate knowledge about the band. So what makes me think I qualified to write a review? God knows...

Knowing her, I thought Cocteau Twins was some sort of angry girl band like the Bikini Kills. You know, an all-girl band who urges female species around the world to vent their anger by kicking us men squarely in the nuts. Well, maybe they do. I could not catch the lyrics much except the repeated ‘perhaps-some-other-aeons’. I wonder what that means. I wonder if it’s an answer to a question. You know, questions like::

Would you like a cup of coffee? Perhaps some other aeons.
Would you like a razor to go with that wrist? Perhaps some other aeons.
Would you like to watch another Ben Stiller movie? Perhaps some other aeons. Moreover, somebody should shoot that guy.

Lyrics aside, I think the closest words to describe their music is ‘out-of-worldly’. The echoing melodies and the incessant, rhythmic beating of the drums give you the feeling that you are floating up there in the sea of stars. I cannot help but catch some strong mystical nuances, like when you hear the chanting of Indian shaman or Buddhist monks. I think the best way to enjoy this song is by lying on your back in a dark, secluded place.
Like when you listen to that Irish chick, Enya, you can imagine the serene lakes, tranquil woods and calm sea. This song is equally engaging but in a darker, grimmer kind a way.

In conclusion, this song is no Didi Kempot (more feminists should listen to this guy’s whining about being dumped by women all over the country) but I think I might like it. Thank you, Marianne.

PS: If you find this review to be chronically one-sided or inacurate, you may complain all you want. Just don’t kick me in the nuts.

The Kota-Rangkasbitung Train

I have just seen the bottom of Indonesian train barrel. It was manifested in the form of economy-class Jakarta Kota-Rangkasbitung diesel train.

The cars had definitely seen better days and now it looked like something the cat dragged in. If you have a train set at home, soak it in a gutter for a night, roll it over in dust, and bang it several times to the wall and you might come close to understanding what I’m talking about. Or being clubbed to death by your little nephew for ruining his train set, for that matter.

The inside of the train car gave you the feeling that the interior design consultant was a group of angry and rebellious teenagers armed with baseball bats and spray paints. There used to be seats in there, but only the rusty wire frames were left, giving you a junkyard look. Whatever was left of the cushions were piled up here and there in the hope that they would pass for seats. I could not tell the original color of the floor since it was comprehensively covered by dirt, candy wrappings, plastic bags, peels of any fruit known to man, banana leaves and other things I could only guess. The walls were decorated with contemporary writings in the form of love pledges by several different people in at least four languages, revolutionary slogans, advertising statements (one promoting a Bantenese penis enlargement method), narcissistic statements, and on that could only be categorized as cry of desperation (a hilarious ‘Eyang, cucumu terluka..’—‘Grandpa, your grandson is hurt..’, trying to imagine what prompted the author to write this particular literary gem was mentally disturbing). And the smell. Man! It was as if the entire population of West Jakarta had peed in it. That and some other foul smells that my sensory organ just refused to contemplate.

Yet, it was always packed with passengers. And hawkers. Anything you need, man, you can find it here. Peanuts, fruits of all season, spare automobile tires, vast array of clothing, and some weird looking self-massage device that I mistook for, uhm, a dildo. Not that I’m interested in dildos. I’m completely secured with my sexuality. And come on, why would I need dildos anyway? Anyways, now that we’ve established the fact that I don’t need dildos, these hawkers tirelessly marketed their goodies even though the aisle was jam-packed by passengers. I noticed an orange vendor that offered 15 oranges for five thousand rupiahs in Stasiun Kota, the number went up to 20 in Stasiun Tanah Abang, 25 by the time the train reached Kebayoran Lama, and finally 30 at Stasiun Pondok Ranji, where I got off. Goddamn! I couldn’t imagine how much oranges you could get for five thousand rupiahs when you buy them at Rangkasbitung.

Getting off the train required Herculean effort. There were a lot of pushing and shoving, and groping, yes somebody actually chop a feel at my rear end. It was more of criminal rather than sexual, I guess. Whoever did it must have been trying to feel my back pocket for wallet. And he’s not very good at it. Not that I am in the habit of having my arse gropped…

Kilkelly

I dedicate this song to those who live far away from home.

Kilkelly
(Peter Jones)

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 60, my dear and loving son John
Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good
As to write these words down.
Your brothers have all gone to find work in England,
The house is so empty and sad
The crop of potatoes is sorely infected,
A third to a half of them bad.
And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell
Are going to be married in June.
Your mother says not to work on the railroad
And be sure to come on home soon.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 70, dear and loving son John
Hello to your Mrs and to your 4 children,
May they grow healthy and strong.
Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble,
I guess that he never will learn.
Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of
And now we have nothing to burn.
And Brigid is happy, you named a child for her
And now she's got six of her own.
You say you found work, but you don't say
What kind or when you will be coming home.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 80, dear Michael and John, my sons
I'm sorry to give you the very sad news
That your dear old mother has gone.
We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly,
Your brothers and Brigid were there.
You don't have to worry, she died very quickly,
Remember her in your prayers.
And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning,
With money he's sure to buy land
For the crop has been poor and the people
Are selling at any price that they can.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 90, my dear and loving son John
I guess that I must be close on to eighty,
It's thirty years since you're gone.
Because of all of the money you send me,
I'm still living out on my own.
Michael has built himself a fine house
And Brigid's daughters have grown.
Thank you for sending your family picture,
They're lovely young women and men.
You say that you might even come for a visit,
What joy to see you again.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John
I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on.
He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end.
Ah, you should have seen him play with
The grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend.
And we buried him alongside of mother,
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard.
He was a strong and a feisty old man,
Considering his life was so hard.
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you,
He called for you in the end.
Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit,
We'd all love to see you again.

Note: 130 years after his great grandfather left the small village of Kilkelly in County Mayo, Peter Jones found a bundle of letters sent to him by his father in Ireland. The letters tell of family news, births, death, sales of land and bad harvests. They remind the son, that he is loved, missed and remembered by his family in Ireland. The final letter informs him that his father, whom he has not seen for 30 years, has died, the last link with home is broken. Peter Jones used these letters to make this song.
The "trouble" in verse two is probably the Fenian rising of 1867.

Sugeng Kenthongan

My first encounter with Sugeng Kenthongan dated back when I was still in elementary school and we were still living at Jalan Tengiri house near Teluk Penyu. Like a clock work, day after day he would march the streets of Cilacap, including the one in front of our house, singing while playing his bamboo kenthongan. Hence the name.

In the ancient pre-cellphone, pre-telephone, pre-loudspeaker, and pre-e-mail days, kenthongan was largely used as a mean of communication. It is made from hollowed log and hung in front of every neighborhood watchpost. When I was a kid, every house had the hand-held bamboo version. Beat the shit out that thing with a stick and neighbors, alarmed by its rapid thumping, would gather in no time asking, what happened? what happened?.

It was one of those hand-held version that Sugeng beat rhythmically to accompany whatever it was that he was singing, if you could call it that. Children jeered at him and scurried behind him daring each other to walk the closest to him. The boldest went as far as tugging at his shirt. Adults, having grown accustomed to his patrolling the streets, took no heed. But Sugeng marched along unperturbed. Rain or shine. Day and night. Day in day out.

If there was a parade in town, you could bet your last dime that Sugeng would be there. Clad in his rag shirt and shorts he strode along the colorful uniforms of drumband squads, maneuvering deftly among the flagbearers until he was at the front. Up there with the pretty majorettes with their skimpy skirts, white stocking, knee high boots, make-up that were much too heavy for their age, and silver sticks that they effortlessly threw to the air in circular motions. His kenthongan thumping and tin can singing vainly competed with the drumming of drums and blaring trumpets. Yet he walked with some sort of quiet pride, like it was HIS parade and others merely marched behind him.

His origin had become one of the greatest questions of my childhood. I was never concerned about where babies were from. But where was Sugeng from? Whatever happened to him? Where did he live? Did he have parents? Did he ever stop to eat or pee or poop? He always turned up with different clothes every day so I guess he must have had a home. But where? Rumor had it that he went bananas because he was rejected by the army but nobody knew what really happened.

Many, many years later I was running on an errand downtown with Secondborn when I saw him crouching on the sidewalk, his back against the wall of a abandoned building. So he did stop to rest. The questions must have been bugging Secondborn as well because he nudged at me and we walked up to him. Secondborn offered him a cigarette which he accepted gratefully. After the second puff we started asking the questions in native Banyumasan. He never gave satisfactory answer. He told us that he lived ‘just over there’. He never went to any schooling and was very unclear about the whereabouts of his parents.

On our way home Secondborn pointed out that Sugeng was indeed the luckiest bastard in Cilacap. Look at him, he said, he did nothing but sing and march all day, a thing that he apparently loved. He’s well fed and never had to worry about flunking a class, getting a job or getting trampled upon by girls. Classes, jobs and maybe even girls simply did not exist in his world. He lived in a world where he created his own reality. And because people didn’t understand his reality and thus dubbed him a looney, he could do whatever he wanted. No hush, no fuss. People would just shrug and walk away. Very convenient.

The reason I’m writing this is that a couple of weeks ago during my trip home, I saw him again. His thin figure among the traffics. The rhythmic beating of his kenthongan and the rough, high-pitched singing, which was a Banyumasan nursery song now that I listened closely. The casual but proud march. The unconcerned way that he walked. The luckiest bastard in Cilacap.

Liburan di Meja Kerja

Belok kiri di pertigaan Bantulan dan melajulah saya di jalan Godean. Terasa semilir angin yang membawa wangi merang dari tempat pembakaran batu bata yang bertebaran di kiri-kanan jalan. Motor saya terus melaju, sesekali mendahului omprengan tua yang tertatih-tatih kelebihan muatan atau petani yang bersepeda sambil membawa cangkul di boncengannya.

Mata saya berpesta dengan sawah-sawah, saluran irigasi dan pohon akasia yang berderet sepanjang jalan. Warung-warung dari bambu yang menjual mie ayam dan jajanan ala kadarnya. Saking ndesonya, saya merasa mie ayam dengan tomato ketchup produksi perusahaan antah berantah yang disajikan di warung-warung tengah sawah itu lebih nikmat dari spaghetti bolognaise Pizza Hut.

Dan sampailah saya di perempatan pasar Godean. Jalan ke kiri membawa saya ke Argomulyo, ke kanan ke Mlati, dan jika lurus terus ke Kulonprogo, yang menjadi tujuan saya. Lampu merah memaksa saya berhenti di antara bis tiga per empat jurusan Jogja-Dekso dan seorang bapak tua yang mengendarai sepeda lengkap dengan keranjang di kiri-kanannya. Sore itu pelataran pasar penuh dengan penjual keripik belut dan keripik bayam, kudapan nasional Republik Godean. Ada yang ditempatkan di dalam etalase kaca sederhana, tetapi sebagian besar ditumpuk menggunung di tampah bambu. Seorang ibu berkacamata hitam turun dari Kijang barunya mulai bernegosiasi dengan sang bakul. Saya tidak tahu apakah negosiasi itu berujung kepada kesepakatan jual-beli karena lampu keburu hijau dan bunyi klakson motor dari belakang mengingatkan saya untuk meneruskan perjalanan.

Bulak demi bulak saya lewati. Bagi yang belum tahu, bulak adalah istilah orang Jawa untuk selajur jalan panjang yang di kiri-kanannya hanya terdapat persawahan atau tegalan, zonder pemukiman. Adalah merupakan suatu kemalangan kecil bagi setiap pengendara yang pecah ban, kehabisan bensin atau mogok di tengah bulak di malam hari karena biasanya mereka harus menuntun motor cukup jauh untuk mendapatkan pertolongan. Kemalangan besar adalah jika dalam keadaan sedemikian mereka masih harus bertemu seorang wanita bergaun putih dan berambut panjang yang kakinya tidak menjejak tanah.

Jalan aspal mulus mulai menurun dan saya pun tahu kalau sebentar lagi saya akan menyeberangi Kali Progo. Jembatannya lebar dan agak panjang dengan tonggak-tonggak sepinggang yang dicat kuning. Karena ini adalah musim kemarau, sungai Progo hanya terisi separuhnya. Separuh yang lain menunjukkan permukaan yang penuh batu kali yang kemudian diangkut oleh truk-truk tanggung untuk dijual ke Jogja atau Muntilan. Laju motor yang dibantu oleh gravitasi bumi membuat saya dalam waktu sekejap berpindah dari wilayah Kabupaten Sleman ke Kabupaten Kulonprogo. Welcome to West Progue.

Setelah melewati terminal Kenteng yang sepi karena pada saat pembangunannya tidak memperhitungkan bahwa penumpang bisa lebih suka menunggu di perempatan daripada harus berjalan kaki seratusan meter ke terminal, tibalah saya di perempatan Kenteng. Ke kiri ke Wates sedangkan ke kanan Muntilan. Lurus, yang menjadi tujuan saya, adalah ke perbukitan Menoreh.

Seusai menyeberang perempatan, saya menjumpai pasar Kenteng yang sudah sepi pengunjung. Mungkin hari itu bukan hari pasaran atau memang karena sudah menjelang sore saya tak tahu persis. Yang ada hanya pedagang atau entah siapa yang tiduran atau sekadar bersandar melepas lelah di los-los pasar yang kosong. Pedagang cendol di pintu masuk pasar duduk mencangkung di kursi bambu dan merokok bersama, lagi-lagi, tukang mie ayam. Terkadang saya berpikiran bahwa jika ada kontes pemilihan makanan nasional, maka saya dengan sepenuh hati akan mengusulkan mie ayam karena di republik ini kemanapun kita melayangkan pandangan di situ ada tukang mie ayam.

Perhatikan semangkuk mie ayam. Mari kita pisahkan elemen-elemen yang membuatnya menjadi mie ayam. Pertama adalah mie yang terbuat dari gandum. Kedua adalah ayam cincang. Dan ketiga, bumbu yang terdiri dari campuran rempah-rempah dan minyak. Ketiga hal tersebut adalah elemen dasar mie ayam yang seragam di mana-mana, mulai dari mie ayam pasar Kenteng sampai mie Gajah Mada. Elemen lain seperti kaldu, sawi hijau, sambal botol, kecap, acar, dan kerupuk hanyalah bersifat pilihan. Satu-satunya kelainan, jika bisa dikatakan demikian, adalah sebuah warung di daerah Wonosari, Gunung Kidul, yang menyajikan paha ayam utuh sebagai pengganti ayam cincang. Itupun terpampang jelas di spanduk yang mewartakan menu warung itu; ‘Mie Paha’, bukan ‘Mie Ayam’.

Keseragaman inilah yang semakin menguatkan keyakinan saya bahwa mie ayam adalah makanan yang lebih nasional jika dibandingkan dengan, soto. Soto memang ada di mana-mana, tetapi variannya terlalu banyak. Soto Lamongan yang berkuah santan misalnya jauh berbeda dengan soto Jogja yang bening dan nyaris tanpa rasa. Belum lagi soto Padang yang dagingya digoreng kering, soto Banjar yang dilengkapi perkedel, soto Madura yang menyertakan sebutir telur rebus utuh, dan soto Banyumas (wilayah yang mencakup Sokaraja, Purwokerto, Purbalingga, dan tanah air saya, Cilacap) yang, menurut saya, menghidangkan surga di setiap mangkuknya. Mohon maaf jika saya menyimpang terlalu jauh dari tema utama tulisan saya ini.

Kenteng dengan segala kesepiannya lewatlah sudah dan di depan mata saya perbukitan Menoreh berjajar dengan anggunnya. Daerah perbukitan yang menjadi setting serial silat legendaris Api di Bukit Menoreh yang menurut bapak saya, sebagai salah satu pecandu berat serial tersebut, ceritanya tidak selesai karena sang pengarangnya, SH Mintaredja, keburu meninggal tanpa meninggalkan kerangka cerita selanjutnya.

Setelah melewati tanjakan-tanjakan pendek dan menengah dan mengambil ancang-ancang yang cukup jauh, motor bebek saya meluncur untuk menaklukan tanjakan yang paling menantang. Tanjakan itu sebenarnya tidak curam; hanya panjang dan tanpa bonus jalan datar. Belum sepertiga tanjakan, tenaga motor saya yang memang ala kadarnya itu sudah terkuras habis. Bendera putih dikibarkan dan saya pasrah menempuh sisa tanjakan dengan persneling 1, sedikit lebih cepat dari orang jalan kaki. Pada saat seperti ini saya selalu teringat pepatah orang Jawa “alon-alon waton kelakon, gremat-gremet asale slamet”. Toh puncak bukit itu tak akan kemana.

Hampir sunyi. Hanya lamat-lamat suara loudspeaker surau yang menyetel kaset pengajian entah dimana. Jogja terasa jauh. Sejauh mata saya memandang hanya pepohonan yang terlihat, baik yang masih berdaun ataupun yang sudah meranggas. Saya sempat menghitung paling tidak ada empat pohon durian nun jauh di bawah sana. Pohon itu paling gampang dikenali karena daunnya berwarna hijau keperakan. Petak-petak sawah seperti papan catur yang tidak beraturan, antara kuning padi dan merah tanah sisa panen. Bau rumput kering dan bau-bauan kemarau lainnya menguap dari tanah di sekitar saya, di puncak bukit yang saya tidak tahu namanya. Sanctuary saya.

Samar-samar saya mendengar suara orang memanggil nama saya. Bagaimana mungkin? Lambat laun makin jelas. Ko! Eko! Konsep bahan rapat lu ditunggu Kabag lu tuh! Saya membuka mata dan melihat jam. Hm. Waktu makan siang sudah usai 5 menit yang lalu. Kembali ke dunia nyata. Kembali ke Jakarta.